“Ollie will be along any moment. I bet he’d be happy to have a drink with you.”
“I don’t want to have a drink with Ollie,” I say, proud of myself for keeping my voice calm, when all I want to do is scream. Because the Damien who would willingly park me at a happy hour table with Ollie McKee is not the Damien I know and love. I take a step closer to him. “Damien, please tell me what’s wrong.”
“I just need to get up to the room.” The elevator car arrives, and as if in proof of his words, Damien steps inside.
I follow, then frown as my gaze takes in his face. For the first time I see the beads of perspiration at his hairline. I see his bloodshot eyes and pale, waxy skin. “Jesus, Damien,” I say, reaching out to press my palm against his forehead as the elevator whisks us up to the Presidential Suite.
He turns away. “I don’t have a fever.”
“Then what the hell is it?”
For a moment, he says nothing. Then his shoulders rise and fall as he takes a deep breath. “I’m just upset.”
“Upset?” I hear my voice rising and force myself to keep it down. “Because the charges were dropped?”
“No. Not because of that.”
The elevator door opens, and I follow him into the hall, then halt at the door of our suite.
“Then what?” I ask as he slides his keycard into the lock. My speech is unnaturally calm. “Dammit, Damien, talk to me. Tell me what happened today.”
The light turns green and he pushes open the door and steps into the suite. I am not sure if it’s real or my imagination, but he seems unsure of his steps, as if he’s afraid that the floor is going to disappear out from under him. I have never seen him like this, and he is starting to scare me.
He may say that he’s upset, but I don’t believe him. When Damien is upset, he lashes out. That famous temper rises and he takes control of the surroundings. Hell, he takes control of me.
But right now he looks as though control is slipping through his fingers like sand. This isn’t upset—this is damn near shattered. And I am terribly, terribly afraid.
“Damien,” I repeat. “Please.”
“Nikki—”
He yanks me toward him and though I’m startled, I almost cry out with joy. Yes, I think. Kiss me, touch me, use me. Whatever he needs, I will give. And he knows that—dammit all, he knows it only too well.
But he does nothing. Nothing except thrust his fingers into my hair and hold me tight.
“Damien.” His name feels ripped from me, and I force my head up, then crush my lips against his in a bruising kiss. He responds immediately, his mouth hard and demanding under mine, his hands on the back of my head forcing me closer. The kiss is brutal. Violent. Our teeth clash, he bites down on my lip, I taste blood, and I don’t care. On the contrary, I feel as though I am soaring, set aloft by the passion in his touch, by the desire coursing through him.
His body is hard against mine, and one hand has moved down to cup my ass. He holds me hard against him, and I can feel his erection straining against his slacks. I grind against him, almost melting from the white-hot relief that boils within me. He’s back, I think. He’s back.
But it’s only an illusion, because suddenly he’s shoving me away, his eyes wild and lost, his breathing hard. He reaches to steady himself on the back of a chair and tilts his face away from me. But it’s too late, I’ve seen too much, and what I saw in his eyes was horror.
I stand frozen, not by fear, but by the knowledge that right then I am impotent. He has shut me out, and I don’t know the way back to him.
“Don’t,” I whisper. It is the only word I can manage and I have to force it past my lips.
I think that he will ignore me, but he looks up, and I gasp from the gray pallor of his skin. Immediately, I am at his side. I brush my palm over his cheek. His skin is cold and clammy.